


Make them (make you) see you the way I do

by Over_the_rainbow



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Communication Issues, Geralt is trans, Geralt’s self-doubt is practically its own character, M/M, author doesn’t have the stamina to write smut you’ll have to use your imagination, drunk discussions of morality in art, flirty banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Over_the_rainbow/pseuds/Over_the_rainbow
Summary: They need to have a talk about Jaskier’s damn song.orGeralt’s struggle with his communication issues.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 128





	Make them (make you) see you the way I do

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed those two to sit down and talk about this song, because Cavill's Geralt is way too smooth for my tastes and i guess it kinda rattled my nerves  
> (read the books if you're ready to deal with Sapko's bullshit and play the games in polish, trust me, you'll discover a completely new facet of Geralt)  
> Thank you namizaela for kindly agreeing to beta this one-shot <3

Geralt of Rivia may not be very old by witcher standards (barely a toddler, according to Vesemir), but it’s a different story when it comes to regular humans. He’s been roaming this continent for long and lonely years – too many to count, really – but it’s the first time anyone’s made a song about him.

_ Toss a coin… _

The song doesn’t appear out of thin air. Jaskier practices around campfires and on the road, ironing out the lyrics, polishing the rhymes. Geralt pretends he’s not paying attention – a second nature at this point – until he realizes who the bard is actually singing about. He’s confused and pleased, and angry that he’s pleased, and he deals with it in the same way he deals with everything else: silently. Some would say sullenly; he disagrees. It’s not his fault Kaer Morhen doesn’t teach a course on how to talk about your feelings.

“Do I have a say about what you’re putting in here?” he asks suddenly one evening as Jaskier is plucking his lute.

“My dear Geralt,” the bard replies, “have I ever asked you to lend me your sword and let me slay some monster in your stead? No, because we both agree that I’d do a terrible job of it and probably get myself killed in the process. In the same manner, I would not lend you my lute to save my life.” There’s a pause, then he asks in a less assured voice: “You don’t like it?”

“No. I mean– no, I do not  _ not  _ like it.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a start. Care to elaborate?”

“I have...” Geralt gestures helplessly. “...feelings about it. It’s… complicated.”

“We have all night,” says the bard as he puts down his lute and shifts to a more comfortable position.

Geralt huffs for a moment until he accepts that there’s no escaping this conversation. “First of all, you’re pulling a good half of the song out of your ass.”

“Please, I’d like to think that comes from a more gracious place. Are you really that worried about accuracy? I figured, the grander the tale, the better the pay. Besides, accuracy is good for encyclopedias and boring fiction. I left that sort of thing back at the academy.” He smiles, clearly pleased with how clever that sounded. “I’m a poet, my dear witcher. Reality can and will be twisted if it makes for a good story or a catchy song.”

“Trust me, I’m the first to know that fiction doesn’t always reflect reality,” Geralt says, remembering a particular volume of erotica he and Eskel stumbled upon when going through an older witcher’s stuff, back when they were kids. “But I don’t like the idea of telling that particular story. I don’t like the idea of you going from inn to inn, singing to people about how I slaughtered a bunch of half-starved, homeless elves with swords so dull you couldn’t even use them to shave. Besides, I didn’t kill any one of them.”

“Admittedly, but people don’t need to know that part. Is it your reputation you’re worried about?”

“That’s not– You’re missing the point!” he exclaims before realizing he’s getting worked up. “I don’t care what people think about me. There’s no salvaging my reputation at this point. I’m not proud of what I do. I’m really not.  _ (That’s a bit of a lie. He is, sometimes; he’s proud when he doesn’t have any qualms about taking the money he’s owed after a job well done. It’s been a while since he’s felt that way, though.)  _ But if I tell the Valley people where they can shove their contract, they’d just laugh at me and find someone else to do it. Someone who might not bother to hear both sides of the story.” Someone desperate. Someone who can’t afford to wonder what is the right thing to do. Memories of dark, hungry times. “Besides, I’m the last person they’ll take a lesson from. For them, I’m just a hired sword, barely good enough to take care of their dirty work. But you, you don’t owe them anything, and you’re… better at words than me. Maybe you could...” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Oh, you suggest I be the lesson giver here?” Jaskier starts laughing, then he falters in front of Geralt’s unwavering glare. “Fine, I’ll try to take you seriously. What do you want me to do? Am I supposed to go to them and start singing about how they live on stolen land and should leave their homes at once so that their righteous owners can come and take over? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it doesn’t matter if it’s the best or catchiest song in the world: if there’s a single idiot in the audience that understands the meaning behind my words, I can only hope to outrun them before the whole crowd beats me to death. Surprisingly, I’ve found that terrible people don’t like being told that they’re terrible. Besides, one of the many things I’ve learned in Oxenfurt is that manifestos in verse put neither coin in your purse nor food in your belly, and sadly, both are terribly lacking in my case most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, I love this idealistic side of yours I’m just learning about, but I’m a starving artist.”

Geralt stares at the fire until his eyes hurt. “Then what’s the point in writing anything.”

“Money, my dear witcher, money’s the point, I believe I just told.”

He wants to storm off, but firstly, as infuriating as Jaskier can be, it wouldn’t be wise to leave him alone when they’re this exposed, and secondly, it would be a bit hypocritical of him. Sure, he’d like to think he has principles, but he’s also done questionable things for less than a handful of coins. Surviving is hard when you’re a witcher fresh off Kaer Morhen with no reputation to your name. He takes a deep breath and admits to himself that the bard may not be entirely wrong.

“I don’t like it, but I see your point.”

“I’ll tone down the elf-slaughtering if it makes you feel better,” says Jaskier a little sheepishly. “But it has to have at least a little bit of violence, otherwise people will stop paying attention. Maybe I can throw some puns in there, to distract them.”

“Yes. Yes, I… would like that.”

“Good! Then puns it is.”

Geralt watches him cross out a few lines on the sheet of paper he’s been carrying around, and wonders a little guiltily how long it’s taken him to come up with those particular lines.

“What does make people want to pay attention, besides puns and violence?” he asks when the silence starts feeling uncomfortable.

“Sex,” replies Jaskier without missing a beat. “Powerful, beautiful, inaccessible people having sex. Sophisticated words to describe risqué situations, but not too sophisticated, you don’t want people in the audience to feel dumb.”

“Wouldn’t that be nicer than a song about violence?” Geralt asks, watching the campfire slowly eat away at the logs.

He’d meant it as a joke, something to keep the conversation going, but Jaskier’s raised eyebrow suggests a difference of interpretation.

“You want me to write about the famed White Wolf beneath the sheets?”

“What– no– gods, why are you like this,” he sputters. His face is growing hot. To himself, he can pretend it’s just warmth radiating from the fire.

“You know what? I think a lot of people would be ready to pay good money to hear a song like this one. But alas,” he adds, sighing dramatically like only he knows how, “this song will have to remain unsung. I can only write about what I witness with my own eyes.”

There’s an odd gleam in his eyes. Geralt fights to keep a straight face on.

“And to think you keep boasting about your vast imagination.”

“My dear witcher, my imagination can only do so much,” replies Jaskier with a wicked grin. “It needs to be provided some  _ raw material _ before it can start working its magic.”

Geralt has lived far too long to not see where Jaskier is getting at. This little game they’ve been playing… It would be so easy to just give him what he wants, and yet– something holds him back. He’s had a lot of lovers over the years– no, he slept with a lot of people over the years, and he wonders how many had taken the time to ask his name before exiting his life as swiftly as they had entered it. (The same could be said for him. It’s just as depressing to think about.) And sure enough, none of them had had the harebrained, endearing idea to write a song about him. Even if it’s mainly for money.

It’s selfish, and it’s cruel to them both, but if it means that Jaskier will stay with him a little bit longer, then Geralt will continue playing dumb. At least until the bard gets bored.

So he dodges. He takes away from Jaskier the bottle of whiskey they’ve been trading back and forth and tells him he’s had enough. Jaskier complains loudly for the principle of it but doesn’t insist. Geralt lies down with his back turned to him, the first few notes of an unfinished melody lulling him to sleep.

  
  


As soon as the song is finished, Jaskier bursts with the need to try it at the first tavern where they stop. Still, he finds it in him to ask Geralt for permission, which the witcher silently appreciates.

Once he’s up on a table, Jaskier can’t help giving a little speech before performing, a few comical and wholly inaccurate anecdotes to warm up his audience. Geralt is beginning to think the bard lives off attention as much as the coins that start landing at his feet.

Jaskier sure as hell knows how to talk to a crowd: he hasn’t even started singing but conversations have already petered out and everyone has turned their face to him – some looking curious, others a little bored, but they have yet to turn away from him. Geralt watches them from his corner of the inn, sitting as far away from Jaskier as possible. He warned him when they came in: “No pointing at me, no ‘shout-out to my muse’ or other bullshit when the song’s over, got it? It’s already hard enough to blend in with the crowd. I don’t want them to start gawking anymore than they normally do.”

“I’ll never understand why you of all people would want to blend in,” Jaskier had said, looking a little disappointed. “Blending in is for boring people.”

“If you have to ask, then you’ll never know.”

“Fine,” had sighed Jaskier, “then I shall take all the glory of this song upon myself.”

Geralt may or may not be smiling into his mug of lukewarm beer as he remembers the bard’s dramatic expression.

“I hope sitting in the back is not an excuse not to pay attention,” had been Jaskier’s parting words. “You better have constructive feedback for me once it’s over.”

Geralt doesn’t know much about songs – he doesn’t know much about anything besides killing monsters and pleasing his lovers, but even that is not enough to make them stay. He likes songs ineloquently, if that means anything. Sometimes they make him feel things he didn’t know he had in him; sometimes they make him feel like he could be someone else. That’s how he knows they’re any good. But this is a song about him. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

But Jaskier would be disappointed if Geralt has nothing to say to him besides “it was good” when he comes back, so the witcher pays attention and tries to summon his words.

_ When a humble bard… _

He tries to hide his smile behind his hand. The very fact that Jaskier used the word “humble” to describe himself suggests the opposite, but no one cares about Geralt’s opinion at the moment. It’s like a spell has fallen over the room, and Jaskier is the caster. Now Geralt understands why he let the bard ride with him for as long as he did, despite how infuriating he can get sometimes.

He listens, fascinated and just a little bit embarrassed. Every time the rhythm of the song invites him to get on the ride that everyone else has already happily climbed into, he’s reminded of the fact that it’s a song about him, and he takes a step back. It’s as if, before Jaskier came into his life, Geralt had been living in a very tidy room – a bit small but after all, he doesn’t need much – but Jaskier has barged into the room and opened wide all the windows and cupboards and drawers, and now everything is spilling over the floor and the room feels cramped like it never has before (“That’s a metaphor,” would say Jaskier. “Look at you, using stylistic devices!”)

The song ends way too early for his taste. He still hasn’t managed to untangle his feelings when Jaskier comes to sit at his table and asks him the inevitable question.

“So, what did you think? I know they were only five or six people clapping, but honestly, that’s the best we could have hoped for in this kind of establishment. We need to go someplace where people have taste.”

“I liked it,” says Geralt, trying to sound as earnest as he possibly can. “I really did.”

Jaskier stares at him with a blank face. “Yes, and? I think the room has already established that.”

“I liked the...” mumbles Geralt, feeling cornered. “...the melody.”

“I… Thank you, I suppose?” Jaskier’s expression is unreadable. He frowns like he spotted a fly drowning in his beer. “I don’t know what I expected. But anyway. You know what? I, for one, am tired of shivering in my sleep, so I’m going to find a warm body I can snuggle against for one night. Good evening to you, witcher.”

He’s gone as quickly as he arrived, like he never sat down in front of him in the first place. Geralt doesn’t have the words to make him stay. He sleeps in the stables next to Roach that night, not because he doesn’t have enough money for a room, but because he can’t bear to spend the night all by himself. (Also, maybe he deserves sleeping in the hay, just like he deserved sleeping in the dungeon whenever he would make a rookie mistake during training and displease their teachers.)

  
  


It has less to do with the quality of the song (Jaskier did a great job, if anyone asks him) and more to do with the fact that this is all very new to him. He’s used to people spitting in his face (“Comes with the job,” Vesemir would say), he’s even used to people giving him weird, interested looks like they’re wondering if the mutations affected what’s in his pants (to his disappointment and theirs, it didn’t. Despite the extra hormones, the thing between his legs remained very much the same). He’s never had anyone praise him, let alone write a damn song about him. Witchers rarely get songs. The only way to remember their names are the archives of their respective schools, and those are terribly flammable. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this.

He’s just a witcher.

  
  


They’re back on the road at dawn the next morning. Jaskier keeps yawning. He smells of sex and sated flesh. Geralt doesn’t mean to intrude; he just can’t help but catch a whiff of his smell when Jaskier passes him by to tend to his horse. Heightened senses and all that.

There’s a woman in the stables with them. She’s getting her own horse ready, and she’s humming something as she works. Geralt doesn’t recognize it right away – after all, he’s only heard the finished version once – and it takes him a couple of minutes to before he realizes it’s a familiar tune. Jaskier hasn’t noticed. The witcher wants to nudge him with his elbow, but the remains of last night’s tension still hang heavy in the air between them.

It doesn’t hit him right away. When it does, they’re riding through open fields still glittering with dew, the inn far behind them. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold morning air climbs up his spine. It’s not just any song that the woman was humming. It’s a song with his name in it, and when the people that were sitting in that tavern last night will go their separate ways, each will carry Jaskier’s song in their heart. Some of them might not even remember half the lyrics, most of them will never know who this Geralt of Rivia is, but that’s not the point – it’s like there’s a piece of him that belongs to them now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind it. For someone as lonely as him, it’s not an unpleasant thing at all.

“Hey, Jaskier,” he says when they stop on the side of the road to make camp. They haven’t talked since last night.

“What is it?” Jaskier doesn’t bother to stop chewing.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

He sighs. “Is it about that stupid song? I swear I’ll never sing it again if you dislike it that much.”

“It’s not… It’s not a stupid song.” Geralt can’t help feeling a bit wounded.

“It’s not for you to say. I’m the one who wrote it. I get to decide if it’s a stupid song.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one you wrote it about, so maybe I get to decide a little as well? After all, I’m the raw material.”

He watches as Jaskier tries to fight a smile.

“Okay, maybe you can have a say in this. So, what do you think? Is it a stupid song or not?”

“Definitely not. I think it’s beautiful. It stays inside your head after you’ve finished playing it.”

“Oh, so you’ve expanded your vocabulary since last night?”

“Hey, don’t make fun of me,” smiles Geralt as he throws a pebble at him. “I spent my whole childhood around people who were terrible at this talking thing. It kind of rubs off on you after a while.”

“Excuses, always excuses.”

“I know, I just… I think you’re the first person I’ve ever spent so much time with. Except other witchers, I mean. And Roach.”

“Roach counts as a person?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just stares at him.

“Fine, fine, I’m not questioning your horse’s personhood. But you, mister, you didn’t exactly strike me as inarticulate a few nights ago, when you made your plea in favor of your elf friends.”

“Well, I… I guess actually seeing you perform it hit a lot closer to home than just hearing you rehearsing.”

Jaskier studies him for a moment, then sighs. “Apology accepted.”

“Wait– that’s not everything I wanted to say.”

The bard, who was starting to get back on his feet, sits back down. “I’m listening.”

Geralt takes a deep breath. “At first I was confused, because there’s never been any song written about… people like me. Except maybe for a few nursery rhymes about witchers eating little children that don’t go to bed on time. I guess people just don’t want to hear stories about witchers living happily ever after. But with your words, somehow you made me into something I’m not, and people… like this version of me? Or at least it doesn’t make them want to leave the room? You, Jaskier, you have your own kind of magic, because it must take considerable powers to turn this–” He gestures at himself. “– into something people want to hear about.”

Jaskier still eyes him with the slightest hint of wariness. “Even though this modest song doesn’t challenge the status quo you care so much about?”

“There will be a time for that, I suppose. I’m… sorry for lashing out at you. This world’s shit, but it’s not your place to change it single-handedly. At the end of the day, we’re all just scrambling to survive.”

“It’s just a song to make people happy for a few minutes. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do,” says Jaskier, his shoulders dropping. “I should have asked you before I went ahead and started writing it. I got too enthusiastic again. But… you really meant what you said?”

He smiles. “Every word. I know you didn’t do it for me, but you’ve just made me one of the greatest gifts of my life. Don’t think I take it lightly.”

Jaskier stares at him for a few more moments, his face unreadable, then he walks over to him and takes his face between his hands. Geralt suppresses a well-trained reflex to push him away and savors the touch instead.

“Of course I did it for you, my beautiful, stupid witcher.”

He kisses him. Geralt awkwardly puts his hands on him, not sure he’s been given permission. When Jaskier pulls away, it feels too soon for him. He licks his lips and Geralt stares at him, at a loss for words.

“I made a song about you so people could hear all about how amazing you are, but I’m selfish, so I kept the best details for myself.”

“What details?” asks Geralt, looking up at him.

“Hm… Let’s just say that I could have made hundreds of men and women fall for you without having ever laid eyes on you if I’d wanted to.”

“That’s… a bit much, even for me.”

“Be grateful that I took mercy on you, then,” whispers Jaskier, his lips a few inches away from Geralt’s. He feels as though he’ll go crazy if he doesn’t kiss him right this instant, then he remembers that he can – so he does.

Everything is good and right in the world.

Needless to say, neither of them gets a lot of sleep that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, i finished another witcher thingy! I didn't work on that one as much i did with the other, because it was mostly supposed to be a comfort one-shot to cope with exams stress, but it turned out to be worth posting. Also, i have to mention that i've always avoided writing Jaskier in my fics until this one, so i hope i got his voice right.  
> Thank you for reading!! Kudos and comments are my inspiration's fuel and always greatly appreciated <3


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